Cemeteries of London
by misericordex
Summary: "Don't wait until it's too late to say I love you." A three-chapter story of loss and the grieving process that follows. USUK with FRUK sprinkled in. Warning: If you're expecting a story with happy endings, this is not it...Character Death(s). ;3; Relevant Coldplay song is relevant. :'D I've written this a long time ago, but it's the first time uploading it (and posting. :'D)
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE.**

This is a three-part story of loss and grief. There is an established character death...if you're looking for USUK stories with happy endings, I'm so sorry to say this isn't one...

 **I.**

His fingers moved deftly, with a prowess and ease that came with many years of practice as he buttoned his shirt and swiftly looped his tie into a neat, symmetrical knot. In the next room, he could hear Francis playing the violin, as he had been doing every day, all day since Alfred came to stay over. It was a tribute, Francis had said, a tribute for someone both you and I loved dearly. Often, Alfred would stop to listen outside his door, closing his eyes and letting the tears fall as Francis dug his bow into his strings and made the music that Arthur had so desperately adored come alive. But today, they had business to attend to. Today, Alfred had to remain strong.

He fetched his tuxedo jacket and pulled it over his shirt before making his way through the narrow hallway to the next room over, the heels on his shoes making a soft clicking noise against the aging hardwood floor. Without knocking, Alfred turned the handle and stepped inside, letting the music overwhelm his senses.

Alfred wanted to stand back for a moment to simply listen to Francis pour his heart and soul into each note. But he couldn't. He would break down and, for his own sanity, Alfred could not allow himself to do that.

He took a step forward, choking back tears, yet hesitant to interrupt. Still, when he spoke, his voice was steady, calm—a little _too_ calm. "Francis, are you ready to go?"

The music cut out instantaneously as Francis pivoted on his heel, peering with a sort of glazed curiosity over at Alfred. He lowered his instrument and bow, letting them hang at his side. For a brief moment, Alfred thought he saw tears in Francis's eyes.

 _But only for a moment._

"Ohonhon, _mon cheri_ ," Francis responded, the corner of his lips slowly curling into a smile, "You sure look handsome today." Alfred knew Francis was attempting to elicit a reaction from him, like he so often tried to do, but he also knew that the Frenchman was very half-hearted in his attempt today. Neither of them had been the same after Arthur's death, although Francis at least tried to carry on a semblance of his former self. Alfred, though...he couldn't remember the last time he smiled.

 _A month._

 _That was how long Arthur had been dead._

Alfred's eyebrows drew together into a small frown above the bridge of his nose. "Look," he said, his voice low, brimming with irritation, "If you don't want to go, I don't have to either. Frankly, I'd rather skip the whole ordeal."

At these words, Francis clicked his tongue like a mother hen before gently setting the bow and violin down on his work table. He strode forward towards Alfred and gently caressed the younger's face with his hands. Alfred turned away immediately, revolted. Francis frowned.

"You could at least treat someone courteous enough to give you room and board with more kindness, you know?"

"You forced me to live with you."  
"Only for your own sake, Alfred. You were cooped up all alone in your home, moping and moping and moping. I was doing you a favor! Mon dieu, I swear you're becoming more and more like Arthur each da—"

"—SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP. DIDN'T I TELL YOU NEVER TO SAY HIS NAME?"

For someone who looked so composed a few minutes ago, Alfred was irate. His face was red, distorted with resentment, and his entire body was shaking, set in a pose that looked ready to punch Francis at any minute.

But Francis simply sighed. There was no use getting through to Alfred anymore, he knew. He tried, and he'd try, and he'd try, but it seemed as though everything Alfred was thinking was lost on him. It was like the world was just a big black spot in front of his eyes now that Arthur was gone—A darkness that would never be washed away.

Everyone knew that Arthur's death hit Alfred the hardest, but no one knew just how much.

Francis took his suit jacket hanging on the side of the table and tugged it on. "Alfred," he said, slowly—cautiously, as though prepared for a sudden strike, "It has been a month. You're going to have to let it go at some point." He grabbed Alfred's arm and mustered a weak smile.

"I know he was a very important person to you. He was a very important person to me too. So let us go to see his grave together, non?"


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

"Here we are~!" Francis called out as they came within sight of the large cedar tree on the top of the hill, where a great sculptural cross lay underneath, marking Arthur's grave. Alfred felt his heart drop as he moved closer to the site, his movements slowing as though dawdling would help him avoid the situation altogether.

Now that he thought about it, it had been so long since he had been in London. Even before Arthur's death, he had tried to avoid it at all costs. Ever sunny and optimistic, the stormy weather of England was not necessarily something that Alfred sought out. In fact, he would seek to avoid it unless he were visiting Arthur in his hometown in England, a rare occasion in itself. He hated it then, but never so much before as he hated it now. Everything reminded him of Arthur, of their childhood, where young Arthur would take little Alfred shopping in the London boutiques in the bleak weather, where Arthur and Alfred would laugh and laugh and play together in the rain, free of all the worries of the world. He was reminded of everything in their past, about the time they laughed together, the time they cried together, even the time they fought with each other. He thought about everything they did, everything they didn't do, and everything they had left unsaid.

He could no longer look at the tumultuous, grey sky without cursing the heavens above. This weather must have been an omen of discontent; Alfred was sure of it.

"—Oi! Come on, boy, I don't have all day!"

While Alfred was lingering, overwhelmed with the thoughts of Arthur in his mind, the young Frenchman must have gotten ahead. Francis was now waving at Alfred from the top of the hill, standing right beside the cedar tree.

"Hurry up! It's going to get dark soon!"

With all his might, Alfred forced himself to move forward, breathing slowly, shallowly. By the time he had reached the actual gravesite, his face was white, somber, and his entire body was trembling again. This time, it was not of anger, but of fear. Francis noticed, but made no mention of it. Instead, he slung his arm across Alfred's shoulder, trying his hardest to appease his younger companion's dismal spirits.

"You'll smile for him today, won't you?"

For a brief moment at the sound of Francis' words, a flurry of emotion filled Alfred's face. He tried wrinkling the edge of his lips into a smile, but try as he did, he could not bring himself to. The more he attempted to lighten up, the angrier he got. He was livid that Francis was smiling, angry that Francis had even suggested for him to smile. Why should they smile? What part of this occasion was worth smiling at?

Arthur was dead, and there was no bringing him back.

He clenched his fists, unaware that they were now bleeding from the thorns of the red rose he had been clutching so numbly. Francis must have noticed now, for he gently put a hand on Alfred's shoulder as if to appease him. When he spoke, his voice was barely in a whisper.

"It is time."

Francis went first. He bent down and placed a rose on Arthur's grave. He expressed his regret that Arthur had died too soon, at the mere age of twenty-three years. He then said some words of compassion, words that he had never said while Arthur was still alive. Francis and Arthur had spent the majority of their lives bickering, and Alfred knew that Francis regretted every minute of it now.

As Francis spoke, Alfred had his back turned the entire time, trying his hardest to push the thoughts of Arthur out of his mind. He tried to push the blame out of his head, that it wasn't his fault. Deep down, he knew it wasn't, and no one said it was, but he couldn't help but feel responsible. The guilt nagged at him, and hearing Francis speak just made it that much worse.

When it was Alfred's turn, Francis backed away to give the former some space.

Alfred spoke to Arthur's grave for what seemed like hours, gripping tightly onto the rose so that it drew some of his blood once more, a most beautiful ruby red staining the purity of the grave. He thanked Arthur for everything, for taking care of him as children. He apologized to Arthur, for leaving him when the latter needed him most. His throat clamped tightly together and he broke down. He cried so much that he didn't know it was humanly possible. He cried so hard that he thought he had choked on his own tears. His hands and face were blue from the cold, but he didn't care. He ignored the gust of freezing cold air, which came as whispers to him, reminding him that Arthur was gone forever.

"We'll come back again, Alfred. Next month. We'll visit him until the world ends."

It took another soft pat on the shoulder from Francis to remind Alfred that it was getting late and that they had other pressing matters to attend to. It took a long moment of hesitation for him to catch his breath and wipe the tears that streamed down his cheeks, burning them like acid fire.

And it took forever for him to lay the rose—the reddest rose he could find—down onto the grave and say his farewells.

"I'll see you soon," Alfred said, and this was a promise he had intended to keep.


	3. Chapter 3

**WARNING**

Character death.

 **III.**

 _Six months had passed._

He had left a letter on the armchair, telling Francis where he had gone, if he had ever bothered to return from his shopping spree. He had taken pain-staking efforts to make it neat, sealed it in a small white envelope he found in a drawer in the living room, and left it in a place where Francis would find it. Though they had not been on good terms lately, surely Francis would want to check up on Alfred, and his bedroom would be the first place to look. Alfred found his satchel next to the door, slung it across his chest, and hailed himself a cab. It would take him to the small dirt road, which he had only to walk straight down to get to the river, a place where he had spent many years as a boy with Arthur, having picnics and feeding the birds. He and Arthur would wade out, even if it were cold, if only to find some good skipping stones, worn down by the water and sand until they were smooth.

He paid his fare, handing the driver some bills and telling him to keep the change, before shuffling out onto the dirt path. Alfred let the car drive away, and then began the short journey that would lead him to an inevitable fate. As he went, he would stop and pick up stones, stones as big as his palm, and drop them into his bag, so that it weighed down on his shoulder. But he went on, until he stood on the bank and inhaled the smell of earth and water. It didn't matter now that his hair wasn't combed, or that his shirt wasn't buttoned properly. It didn't matter that he was alone, and that only the birds were providing his music.

Slipping off his shoes, he felt his way along the small pebbles and river weeds, smiling as he felt the mud on the soles of his feet. He gasped when the icy water swept around his ankles, and he pushed onward, onward. Gooseflesh erupted on his arms and legs as the water came to his knees, to his waist. His shoulder ached from his bag of stones, but he enjoyed the cool weather on his face and the gust of wind that played with his hair. He looked at the grey skies and smiled for the first time in a long while. As the ashen waters crashed onto the earth, he thought of his friends, his friends and their sparkling eyes, their charming smile, their laughter. He imagined them standing on the bank watching him as he waded into the water, watching him and smiling, and he turned around a moment to wave at them. He hoped Francis would find a way to make this a happy ending, to satiate his love for romance and sentiment. Alfred had long overstayed his welcome, and he was ready, ready to accept what retribution and atonement was waiting for him under the surface of the water.

He would not fight, he would not thrash.

When only his head bobbed in the open air, he looked up and thought he saw a glimpse of sunlight in the dark skies, if only just for a moment. He squinted to see if it were real. At times he wondered if the world that he could hear and touch and see was still there at all. His knees buckled beneath him, and he sank into the current, a running, swirling line of notes and music and failed hope.

From here he couldn't hear the city, the city that was rumbling in motion, full of people, always moving forward to find a new beginning, while he so desperately clung to the past.

They didn't matter to him. In the end, he wouldn't matter to them either. They would forget about him and move on, just like they had done with Arthur.

But he would never forget Arthur. Never. And as the waters swallowed him whole, Alfred was sure he saw a golden ray of light now.

 _And there was Arthur, a wide grin on his face, ready to welcome him back with open arms._

 **FIN.**


End file.
